


Think of?

by lenioia



Series: Think of... Martin [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Jon/Tea mug, M/M, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29146479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenioia/pseuds/lenioia
Summary: Gerard asks a question in a bar in Genoa. Andrea Nunis finds the answer. That should be all, but Jon is too deep into the statements he records to not feel like he’s being asked himself. Also, tea.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Think of... Martin [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2176419
Kudos: 30





	Think of?

**Author's Note:**

> Mid season two, up to episode 56. I have only vague ideas (spoilers I failed to avoid) on what happens from mid season2 onward, sorry for any errors on that front!  
> Passing mention of suicide hypothesis.  
> Mainly mag 48 Lost in the Crowd, 53 Crusader, 56 Children of the Night. Jon's POV.

He feels somewhat lost into the statements. Lost and watched at the same time, as feeling lost without feeling mocked for it would probably make for an incomplete journey into inadequacy.

Whatever it is, it is that, not that certain statements hit a little bit too close to home.

Like he’s home often enough to be hit there. Prentiss would had evolved into a butterfly swarm waiting for him. An entomologically inaccurate statement, probably, but _it is not his fault_ Tim goes around with butterflies on the back of his jacket and the image has stuck in his brain. Where _not his fault_ paired with _insects_ makes him know he’ll be working, instead of going home, again. He’s not keen on a repeat and pretending ignorance works as a defense only when you have something better than “untarnished” ignorance behind it.

He discards a package notification. Couriers don’t even bother anymore with failed delivery notes when he’s not home to sign for. They just leave the volumes at the door and mail him a photo, sad book on sad doormat, as delivery proof. Very useful actually, a quick glance at his picture folder is now enough to consult all his acquisitions.

If only Elias had hired him an express courier as archiving assistant, instead of a doctor in parapsychology.

Anyway, no matter how many nights they have to weather on the sad doormat, his deliveries are never stolen. Whether this is because his neighbors are very well-behaved people, or because his books are as tempting as toothy apples or spidery apples or whatever else can go wrong with the damn apples, is something he will actually need to know who his neighbors are to tell.

So, no need to go home, and as a bonus, a perfectly rational demonstration on how you don’t need a coffin to fail to notice neighbors, or lack thereof, for two years in a row.

Satisfied, he zones in back at his present location, and closes the Genoa statement which did not hit a little bit too close to his desk.

_He didn’t know what by, but that it was close._

_Was I married? Did I have a fiancé, partner, friends? I told him no, not really._ Not anymore. _I was just about sick of his stupid questions, but he sounded oddly desperate. Siblings? No. Mother?_ No. _It was then that, as I felt my grip begin to slide, and I worried that I would lose myself to the crowd forever, that the words of that strange man in the coffee shop came to my mind. Think of…_

Think of…?

  


Well, it doesn’t matter.

He may not have an answer, but empty crowds and empty graves did not shoot Gertrude, nor are an immediate threat to his (supposed) assistants. Tim and Sasha have friends enough to make a proper crowd out of them, and Martin is kind and warm so he must have as much. He hadn’t spotted any in his investigations, to be honest, and his statement about his time trapped had felt… well probably they just don’t live close by. Or maybe, being a ray of sun is just a murderer’s way to blind people around him, in which case, he can get lost alone any day thank you very much.

Actually, it does matter. If trust can get you killed, having absolutely no one left he trusts it’s the safest he can be.

He files case #0100325 away and switch his laptop to his smartphone hotspot. He’s certainly not using the Institute connection for his research on Elias-worried-for-your-mental-health-Bouchard.

  


And that’s it, until 4 a.m., when he drifts away, his head on the warm power brick of his laptop, the crappy fan the closest sound to someone’s breathing he gets nowadays. His trust could get _them_ killed. That’s how pathetic of a boss he is. He needs to solve this. And then, it won’t matter, if he’s lost.

  


He wakes up to the sound of a closing door. The usual one, at least.

Having missed his chance to spit his bad morning mood at the intruder, he opts to stare down the mug now inhabiting his desk.

Why are you here, again.

Martin has been to Elias with Tim to file a complaint just yesterday. He’s certainly been the one to inform Tim about the shots of his house. Is he sowing doubts to isolate him, to make Tim report to Elias instead?

It makes no sense for you to be here. We should be very done with _caring_ by now. Are you a mockery?

The mug stands unimpressed, its fragrant scent raising in warm whirls, calmingly coiling around his angry breaths.

Black tea, dark and transparent, but with a shine to it that shouldn’t be achievable under the dusty, worn out basement neon. Is Martin even able to craft something that is not bright? It smells of orange peels and cinnamon, and plenty of clover honey, probably, from that jar he was so _loudly_ happy to tell Tim about the other day.

Martin’s pick for him today. And Martin is Elias’s pick for him. His ragged hand gets hold of the cup.

He should end this farce for good and get his answer. Get up, go to Martin’s desk, throw him his precious mug still full and steamy and yell him that he despises his tea as much as his work, that the only reason he’s put up with his misplaced hovering was pity, that is unblemished skin is a testament on how fast he fled the single time he could have been of any use. Make the probability for another mug to ever appear on his desk be closer to zero than statistical mechanics would allow.

And then, if Martin sticks around, it can only be because he has further motives, but he’ll be forced to change his approach, make a false step perhaps. And if not… then he would stay away. Away enough to stay safe?

His grip tightens at the memory of how effective at burning bridges he’s been in the past. But his bony hand is not a match for the thick, rounded wall of the mug. A mug than even now, while he’s trying to summon will enough to stand up and go shatter it along with any remaining bond to his owner, is giving off a deep warmth, seeping into his hand, soothing his aching scarred nerves.

The gentle scent keeps raising while his grip fades. His other hand wraps around the rim, over the pale enameled swirly clouds that look like fog from a Japanese print, and stays there, slowly cradling its walls, until the temperature lowers enough to raise it to his lips.

  
\---  


_Oh, what’s the name of that helper of yours?_

_Uh, Martin._

_No, no – the hot one. He…_

_Yes, Martin._

_...has scars like you_

That slip, and Tim’s thumbs up thing. Couldn’t get more pathetic, could it? Basira must think she’s investigating a bunch of teens. There’s no one in his office, but his face is still behind his hands, when Gertrude’s new tape starts.

  


_Sergeant Walter Heller recording, regarding a discovery made near Alexandria during Operation Crusader…_

  


Gertrude may have ordered half of a neighborhood in Egypt blown up along with a peer of sorts.

He’s going to spend his next half of an hour ordering a sandwich, and so much for worthy successor.

How did Martin talk him into lunch? Did he at least try to object, or did he just comply at the first conjugation of “to worry” Martin uttered? He’s almost sure it was at the second, tough.

Where are they even going? There’s plenty of bars around the Institute, nice area, lots of students and tourists, it’s not that cold yet and the street is buzzling. Martin may have said something about outside and restocking tea but the where went lost the moment an old map of Alexandria loaded on his phone. It’s not hard to follow Martin on a busy street anyway, with his bright cyan lined sweatshirt over a longer coral jumper. It is even easier with the sun (still a thing outside of basements, apparently) shining over his honey colored hair, tied in a short ponytail.

Obviously, the sun shines over the entire street. But everything else, the dull pavement, the gray stones of the buildings, the mostly dark or muted colors of the crowd’s coats and hats… nothing seems to catch the sunlight as Martin.

The first time Martin turns, he retreats into is smartphone. Martin is clearly going farther just to have him breathe a little bit more of fresh air, if he has to play the dog took for a walk, he may as well use the time to dig for more historical maps. The building above the basement in Alexandria didn’t certainly date back to the crusaders and he wants to check what else may have occupied the spot in the intervening centuries.

It’s in the first months of Napoleon’s campaign in Egypt that a sandwich with fresh cheese and colorful spices, wrapped in a striped napkin, is pressed into his hand, and held there until the bigger hand is certain the smaller one has taken hold of the item.

Martin is talking again about tea, a stall at the next crossroad sells new flavors each week, like the edible sparkly tea he gave Tim for his birthday. He ponders which day that was for the sole purpose to reassure himself he hasn’t been absentmindedly drinking boiled glitter. And they can get the surprise cup, Martin is meanwhile saying, a stubborn smile on even though he’s basically talking to a busy signal, for half the price if they can guess the ingredients of the blend.

He eats his sandwich, so he’ll be excused from adding to the conversation, but still follows Martin as he walks. As soon as his sandwich is gone, his eyes go back to his phone and the cartographers of the French expedition.

A side search leads him to bookmark a page about the children of the Bouchard who found the Rosetta stone, just in case, then he briefly raises his head again to orient himself, while a download with prints from a section of _la Description de l'Égypte_ completes.

There’s no cyan sweater in sight anywhere in the unfamiliar lateral street.

Tall anonymous buildings cast a cold shadow on the pavement, dense with _a constant flow of people travelling down it in both directions._ He shivers and stops. Someone bounces against him.

_I couldn’t see any stalls or shops, or anything that might explain the presence of so many people, but I didn’t have time to really think about it before they started bumping into me._

Another hurried passer-by hits, not stopping to excuse himself or otherwise acknowledge his existence. _It didn’t seem deliberate, but there were so many people, far more than I had thought at first,_ but they have faces, regular non screaming faces, he forces himself to notice. He knows what this is. Nothing out of ordinary but peak hour in central London and being too much on the edge. And the fear of the statement givers, that lingers within, like an own scar that makes him startle at mismatched doors and blown up lamps. That, when Michael stabbed him, let his brain compare his pain to the pain Sasha felt. So, he really wants to stay out of the flow and stop feeling like Nunis felt, before the moment for an answer he doesn’t have arrives, but he’s near a crossing _and they couldn’t move without jostling or pushing me. The flow of people dragged me this way and that and I was surrounded by that noise, that mumbling noise of the crowd._ His fingers dig in the striped napkin in his hands. _Think of…_

Martin. He thinks of Martin. His soft face, the aroma of his tea, his long ramblings whenever he tries to talk to him.

It calms him enough to step aside and properly scan his surroundings, and soon he recognizes the place, and spots a tall, rounded and bright figure which seems to part effortlessly the crowd as he approaches. Coming back to check he’s not lost.

His right hand moves slightly forward, like he’s expecting Martin to take it when he reaches him.

And… he really, truly, needs a full night of sleep, because this is getting pathetic beyond mortification. He feels lucky they are outside, with cold air keeping his cheeks from changing hue, and he can almost imagine how this would have played out in a department store, with some loudspeaker broadcasting after a calliope jingle “Service announcement from our staff: a small archivist named Jon has been found alone in an aisle, hissing at canned peaches. If anyone is missing a paranoid boss, please reach out to customer service to claim him”

There is something like surprise on the face that is coming closer, and he realizes his expression must have eased, almost to a smile, while he was looking at Martin. He has relaxed.

Let his guard down.

Last time he did, Helen Richardson took the wrong door.

He cannot think of Martin. He cannot trust him. He knows nothing about him beyond a CV that made for a totally opposite picture, not unlike what transpired about Elias’ past. The only thing he’s certain of, is that Martin is a liar, in his own words. To what extent, he’s not even sure he’s ready to know. He tenses and Martin seems to notice, because he slows down, and there’s worry now. Worry for what, for someone with the power to fire him that he believes is going crazy? Or for a lure that is failing, because his prey is beginning to see behind that luminous, caring facade?

Martin is nearly as tall as Michael. He wouldn’t need a gun when the moment comes.

He wouldn’t even need a homicide. _You needed five stitches after you “accidentally” stabbed yourself with the bread knife. If you’re still claiming that’s what happened._ Not a hard sell to the police, isn’t it? Paranoid found with knife wounds, again. This time he went through with it. Acquaintances are sorry, but confirm he’s been refusing any help. The Institute is appointing a replacement.

His eyes must show the same rage he’s feeling, because Martin is now frozen on the spot, and people starts to bump into him. He stares him down for a few more seconds, challenging.

Then he turns and storm off, without a single word, leaving Martin alone in the murmuring crowd.

  


A few minutes later, he’s back in the Archive. He gathers the pile of folders he was planning to split between his assistants in the afternoon and slams them all on Martin’s desk, along with some coins to cover for the sandwich. Then picks a dusty box of unsorted statements and closes his office door behind him.

  
\---  


_I lied on my CV._

_…what._

_I don’t have a master’s in parapsychology. I don’t even have a degree._

_I was 17, my mum, she had – she had some problems and I ended up dropping out of school trying to support us. I tried everything but nowhere was hiring, so I just kind of started to lie on my application, sending them out to just about anywhere._

_For some reason my lie about parapsychology got me an interview with Elias and – and then a job here. But most of my employment details are made up. I’m only 29._

While Martin speaks the weight lifts so rapidly that he feels almost floating, because everything checks out, and then Martin is, just Martin, and his warmth and light are not smoke and mirrors but how he really his, too caring for his own good. He doesn’t even dawn on him to cross check before he says that he believes him, which is more of a realization about how he feels than an answer to Martin. He does believe Martin. He’s still able to trust.

And thankfully they are sitting on opposite sides, because for the briefest moment he knows he’s just an interposed desk away from letting his forehead sag on that soft jumper in relief, remorse, surrender, exhaustion, or whatever mess of emotions he’s in right now.

It is certainly not the moment to do so, when he has just mistreated Martin so thoroughly that for once he’s looking as old as his CV stated. But even with his hand in front of his face, the sound of his relieved smile escapes. It takes him another cobbled up sentence before he can manage to bottle his voice back into an almost normal tone and at least reassure Martin he’s not going to face consequences for… well, being a good son and almost manage in a job others had ten more years to prepare for.

Martin flees to his desk as soon as the tape stops.

In his now empty office, his smile fades. His selfish moment of reprieve doesn’t fix anything. Reality is not going back to boxes to discredit and Tim’s pranks to avoid. Martin has more reasons than ever to not trust him back. Not until he can offer some proof, not until he knows the dangers.

Right now, the only good thing he can offer Martin is to stay away. So, he composes himself, as much as one can while being in the same clothes as two days before, and leaves to raid the Institute’s library.

When he’s back, with a pile of old volumes clearly marked “do not remove” he clearly removed, Martin is not there anymore. Obviously. He had waited for Tim and Sasha to be gone to ambush him, workday over, Martin had no reason and certainly no desire to stay a second longer, after that.

Still. It is a while before he turns back from the darkened archive and heads to his office.

But as he opens his door, a fragrance of lavender and honey surrounds him. The mug is there. Cold by now, but still waiting.

He sits and places it close, both his hands tightly wrapped around it while he reads, until at last the faintest hint of warmth seeps back into the lightly colored tea, and he feels allowed to try it.

  


It’s 4 a.m. and he sees the nightmare approach as soon as his head settles on the power brick, but he’s too tired to avoid it. Steps going down into obscurity, he knows he’ll have to search the tunnels again someday, or maybe it’s some darker place he’s yet to discover.

_The only light down there is what you bring yourself_ , he remembers, but as he realizes how pale and fragile is lone light looks, a brighter cone of light appears alongside, and he knows it is Martin, and he knows why he is here. This time, he lets his hand move towards the bigger hand.

  



End file.
